Thorns: A study in human frailty

By Frances Brand

Traumatised by what he witnessed in the streets of Sarajevo during the 1990s siege, newsman James Lambert flees back to England, seeking peace and recovery in the beauty and apparent tranquillity of the countryside. He'd narrowly escaped death from a Serbian shell and watched his Bosnian lover die

Haunted by memories and the reverberat

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frances Brand
• Release date: Oct 18, 2018
• ISBN: 9781916270817

Frances Brand

Former journalist Frances Brand is based in the west of England among the glorious countryside of the Marches where a crow or raven can fly quickly over the border into Wales. She gave up journalism when the internet was giving regional papers a hard time to begin a new career running a popular bed and breakfast. She was latterly the editor of a farming newspaper, working closely with farmers and others involved in agriculture so knows at first hand the problems and vicissitudes of farming in the 21st-century and what conflicts can arise in a claustrophobic rural society. She witnessed at close quarters the trauma inflicted on the farming community during the UK foot and mouth disaster of 2001. She feels very strongly that so many people have lost touch with the countryside and its benefits, not least the ability of the landscape to inspire and comfort and renew optimism. She breeds horses and dogs at her home in the Shropshire Hills

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THORNS

A study in human frailty

Frances Brand

Copyright © 2018  Frances Brand

All rights reserved.

ISBN:9781916270817

Imprint: Independently published

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The protagonists in this story and the specific events related are entirely fictitious and any resemblance to living people is unintended.

The background in Bosnia is based on what happened during the bitter civil war which racked that country in the 1990s affecting so many lives.

Some of the local gatherings actually took place in a Shropshire village well known for its  outstanding community spirit.

My thanks to Howard Waters for his support and

assistance and the design of the Thorns cover.

And to beautiful Cloudborne, 'Sonny', who is alive and well at the age of 28.

We were unable to attribute the base photograph  but if anyone can claim copyright they should  contact the author.

Chapter one

He leaned on the hurdle pen confining a small group of lambs and stared at them without seeing. They watched him, shifting nervously, crouched together, their fleeces stained and dark where the blowflies had struck. He looked away from them into the distance, seeing in his mind's eye another scene where maggots had played a part on two rotting human bodies heaped together beside a dusty road. That triggered another memory and took him back to the moment he'd walked along a stone-paved street searching anxiously for a cafe on the Alipasina. He found it eventually, through an ancient door surrounded by an arch worn smooth by centuries of human touch. Hesitant, he looked around and found himself facing a dark haired young woman with an apologetic smile.

I'm sorry, she'd said in good English but we have only one dish on the menu today. It's very hard now to offer a choice.

He shook his head. I'm lost. They said to come here, you would be able to help me. He smiled back at her and asked if there was coffee. She nodded and said: We still have a little. Returning with a jug she led him to a small table and sat down opposite. They talked. He could hear her voice and remembered so clearly the exquisite excitement she aroused in him from the first moment he saw her. That afternoon in Sarajevo changed his life.

He'd become hopelessly lost, taken too many wrong turnings in the city’s old quarter trying to find the place he’d arranged to meet his photographer. He was sent to the cafe because someone there spoke fluent English and would be able to help him. She did. Her English was excellent with a soft, appealing intonation and for the rest of the day as he and Bob the cameraman worked he kept thinking about her, looking at him across the table. He was so preoccupied he messed up his interview with the UN commander who accused him of trivialising the situation. He lost his temper at the accusation and in doing so spoiled relations with a good contact.

What the hell’s got into you? demanded Bob.You really fucked that up.

Forget it. There are other stories, was all he'd said.

In the evening he went back, sure of the way this time, delighted to realise she was pleased to see him. He caught the way her eyes lit up as he approached the bar and she took him to the same table in the corner. He couldn't help watching every move as she went for wine and her easy, silky walk as she returned. Her eyes were large and very dark and he noticed the long, glossy lashes as she leaned forward. They talked over wine and slivovitz for hours.

She was twenty-two and a widow, her Muslim husband killed by the Serbs soon after the fighting started, three months after they were married. She’d had a child but the baby boy had died before he was a year old and, though a Croat, she’d stayed to help run the cafe owned by her husband's family. That marked her in Serb eyes as Muslim. It had never mattered before she said, she’d known her husband since they were children, mixed faith marriages were common in Bosnia and life was good for them. But that was before. Now their lives and the entire city had descended into chaos. They tried to maintain a semblance of normality but as the siege intensified and food, power and communications were cut off, staying alive became the only priority.

He shook his head to banish the thought of her and the pain it brought him. He studied the five lambs then reached down to grab one and began to snip away the dirty wool with the hand shears, revealing the writhing mass of fat grubs hidden in the fleece. He poured the thick oil and watched in satisfaction as the maggots began to squirm and drop out of the wool.

A wry smile lit his dirty face as he thought of his father and the constant rows and conflict all those years ago when he tried to make him understand that he had no interest in taking over the farm. He didn't want to be a farmer. Yet here he was doing one of the dirtiest tasks in the business. He attended to the other lambs then opened the pen to let them rejoin the flock. For the next few days he would keep an eye on them to ensure he had rid them totally of the maggots which, if not removed, would literally eat them alive.

He remembered his father’s face, though he hadn’t thought of him for ages. Strange to recall it now. The old man just wouldn’t accept that he meant what he said but later the disbelief turned to anger. The rows, the endless arguments came flooding back into his mind -- his father wanted him to go to agricultural college, come back to the farm and eventually take over running the business — that was a son’s role. But James wanted to get away from the cloying, narrow confines of his childhood. He meant to go to university and he did.

But it was hard, living on a minimal grant, because although the old man was well off he refused to help. He was so hard up it was ridiculous and without his mother's help he would never have got his degree. She gave him cash when she could, behind the old man’s back. But stacking shelves and serving drinks in Sheffield was an education in itself. He found it hard going but enjoyed the city life after growing up in the country, it was busy and thrilling with people of all types coming into the bar where he worked. It opened his eyes to a totally different world. But back home it was always the same and even after he graduated his father still thought he would change his mind and come to his senses.

The crunch came when he announced at supper one night that he’d got a job on the local evening paper. His father was furious, swearing James would never get a penny from him, his mother had burst into tears and his sister left the room. Leaning on the fence, gazing uphill at his own modest acres he pictured the scene as he stood with his father on the crest of the downs. Arms held at length like a Bible prophet, he said: All this will be yours, James.

But I don't want it.

You must want it! It’s the family farm. What have I been doing all these years if not to build this up and pass it on to you? Land boy, land’s in your blood, you must feel it. When you were born that was it, I had someone to carry on here. That's your job. Look at it.

He'd looked, rolling acres of Wiltshire downland stretched around him, huge empty acres. At that time of year near harvest, the land was golden with waving ranks of ripe corn, with scarcely a weed anywhere, let alone the scarlet splash of a poppy. To him they were barren acres, soulless, few trees in sight and no hedges.

Turning to his father he’d said: How can you feel for this, dad, it’s like a desert. No soul. You're not a farmer, you’re a businessman. You're not in touch with the land, you simply ride over it in big machines. That's not farming. You don't even get your hands dirty.

Don't be stupid. This is what modern farming's about. We've got to feed people, feed the world you’re so worried about. You’re right, it is a business and a damn good one.

I’d be more interested if we had some livestock. All this arable is nothing to me, it’s boring, it’s not my idea of farming. And you know nothing will convince me that these enormous subsidies are right. Mountains of grain that make men like you wealthy.

It gave you a bloody good education which has evidently only filled your head with romantic nonsense. Farming’s like any other business, these crops give a good return, that’s the way the system works.

But it’s not what I want.

That was years ago and now here he stood, setting up to be a farmer. He’d always liked sheep, there was something in their nature that appealed to him. He ran his eye over the rest of the flock, moving away from him as they settled to graze, his eyes seeking signs of lameness or lack of condition.

The young bitch Tess trotted at his heels. People laughed about her, she looked more like a jackal or a dingo -- he sometimes called her the dingo -- but in a very short time she had become a brilliant little working sheepdog. By a kelpie dog her mother was the most unprepossessing bitch he’d ever seen, a mistake. But he liked the pup and took her on to save her from being shot. She was very smart, her natural instinct for working the sheep apparent very early and she seemed to know at once what he wanted. Her sharp intelligent face had bright sweet eyes and she had pricked ears which turned over when she was worried and a bushy tail like a fox. Her hair was yellow, nothing like most people's idea of a sheepdog. But when it came to moving sheep she was a star. She stayed by his side as he crossed the yard to look over the valley. The sun was starting to sink behind the crag on Jagstone Hill and its rays glinted on the windscreen of a vehicle turning off the village road into his lane.

Shit, he muttered, wondering who it might be. Across the valley, the church tower seemed very close in the evening light. He could pick out the copper beeches in the churchyard but the black and white pub was obscured behind oak trees. It was a mile away but often seemed closer, depending on the light.

He sighed, not eager for callers, ill at ease with most of the locals, not yet absorbed into the community and not likely to be, he knew, unless he made an effort. He waited by the wall and watched the Land Rover climb the last steep rise before his gate. He thought he recognised it as it pulled in and was relieved to see his neighbour Jack Wilson climb out. Jack was one of the few he had properly got to know, he'd helped him out several times over the winter and the farmer had returned the compliment. His daughter Pat was always ready if he needed a hand.

I was close by so I thought I'll call up, he began. Wondered if you might like a bit of shooting, that wheat stubble of mine is covered with woodies most mornings and it's good sport if you can bag a few.

James frowned then smiled awkwardly. It's kind of you, Jack but I'm not into shooting much these days. Haven't had the gun out for years.

Go on, give yourself a break. It's wonderful out there in the early morning, you'll enjoy it. Don't you like pigeon?

I do actually, they make a lovely hotpot. I used to shoot them at home.

Well, think on it, you're very welcome if you fancy it

Thanks.

Jack eyed him. Everything all right up here? Any problems?

Not really, maggots on a few lambs but I've dealt with that.

Yeah, just the weather for 'em, warm and moist. Well, good to see you, I must get back for the milking. Don't forget, you're always welcome at our place if you fancy a chat.

James nodded and walked to the truck with Jack, waiting as he drove away, struck with a sudden spasm of emptiness, alone again with memories and too much thinking time. Indoors he looked at the whisky bottle handy on the kitchen top and fetched a glass from the cupboard.

The chatter of jackdaws busy on the roof roused him at first light. He snuggled deeper into the bed and drew the quilt over his head but the birds’ noise was persistent and he lay frowning, dragging his senses together.

The unlined curtains revealed a sunny morning and the busy birds urged him to get up. A pair of wood pigeons cooed in their late summer courting, reminding him of Jack's invitation. A walk with his dog and the gun seemed a good thought. He opened the gun cabinet, unlocked against all the rules — and in his bedroom from necessity as the only place in the old stone walls sound enough to secure the bolts.

He sat on the bed, cradling the weapon across his bare thighs. He hadn't looked at it for months and not fired it for years. It had arrived with him in the cabinet but it was clean and well-oiled with both barrels spotless. Shooting had no great appeal for him but he enjoyed walking with the gun and taking a rabbit or bird when he could, something that could make a meal. He’d shot hares at home in Wiltshire but they’d become scarce in this hill country and he preferred to see them alive in the fields.

He’d never felt the same about killing hares since the day years ago on the downs. It was late May and out of season but he was a teenager with a gun, firing at anything that moved in the fields. To his dismay he realised the doe was heavily pregnant. Slitting open the belly he held his breath, dreading what he would find. The three leverets inside must have been only a day or two from birth. They lay on the table perfectly formed, bright dead eyes staring up at him, a silver sheen on their silky brown coats.

He cried, sick with shame and pity. He could not bear the thought of eating the hare and buried her with her young, telling no one what he'd done.

Bobbie the spaniel dashed around him eagerly when he appeared with the shotgun but he said: No Tess, to the dingo. You wait till later.

The late August morning already displayed a hint of autumn, with a heavy dew and in the sloping field above the house the climbing sun made a pathway of silver in the gossamer threads of spider webs across the grass. His leather boots were quickly soaked.

The pigeons congregated on a stubble field in the valley bottom, foraging for fallen grains, sometimes in numbers that turned the field grey. He could be lucky if he was there before them, in time to get into cover before they arrived. A brace of woodies would make a good supper.

With the gun broken over his arm, he trudged down the hill, the dog bounding near him or speeding off to explore the multitude of scents in the growing warmth. It would be scorching again later but at this time it was pleasantly cool. There were pigeon already on the stubble and careful as he was they flew up in alarm at his approach, wheeled and made for the trees around the field.

Too late Bobbie, he laughed. But he carried on round the boundary on the other side of the hedge and settled himself into a place he’d noticed where several big round straw bales remained from a previous harvest, left as cover for just this purpose. He sat down to wait in the hope that the birds' hunger would be stronger than their wariness. Or some new arrivals might come, unaware of his presence.

He found it hard to sit and do nothing, restless in his own company, ill at ease with his thoughts. It was damp behind the bales which had lain for two years under the trees and the sodden straw had turned black and mouldy, sprouting weeds and shoots of corn, to create green mounds as if they had grown there, part of the scene. Jack would leave them till they rotted down to be ploughed back into the soil. The ground where they waited was littered with empty cartridges and idly he scraped some of them together with his foot meaning to gather them up when he left.

Patiently he waited, trying to keep his mind blank and concentrate on the bright morning. The pigeons which had flown up also waited and watched, perched alert in the trees. All was still, except for the distant sound of a tractor engine and the occasional sharp yaffle of a green woodpecker. He waited but his mind wouldn’t stay blank and crept back always to the spot he wanted to keep buried. A sore spot inside that hurt when probed like the scar on his shoulder. He didn’t want to think of her or of Sarajevo or the nightmare he’d lived there. He tried to bury it by recalling the happy time when they first met. Katya watching him across the table, her anxious eyes searching his. He needed to hold on to that, the way he’d felt then, the fascination she evoked, the attraction between them — he wanted to recall every detail and blank out the rest. If only he could.

Lulled by the stillness a fresh flock of pigeon flew in, joined by the watchers in the trees. James saw them and waited before loading his gun. He selected a bird as it flew in and squeezed the trigger. The other birds rose in panic and he fired again. They wheeled as one, heading again for the trees. He should have reloaded and shot again but the gun’s blast shook him, he’d forgotten how loud a 12-bore sounded and he stood shaking behind the bale, holding his head as the noise repeated in his brain. Not the blast of the shotgun but the horrible, repetitive battering of the heavy guns the Serbs had used to bombard the city from the hills around Sarajevo.

The shock was that it still had the power to affect him, after all these months he couldn’t rid himself of the horror. The spaniel trotted back with each bird in turn and dropped them at his feet. His contented whine recalled him to the warmth of the morning. Well done, Bobbie. No more of that today. Good dog, we’ll go home.

He picked up the birds, feeling their plump, well-fed breasts, young birds which would be tender, a pair of birds like this would have been manna from heaven in the siege. It haunted him still that he could do so little to make any difference, how he felt his failure to help at all because he'd got himself trapped there and couldn’t even tell the world what was going on. Images that haunted him at three in the morning when he woke sweaty and uncomfortable. He tried to blot out the burned bodies he'd seen in a Muslim village, two children and a woman huddled in the foetal pose clutching her tiny baby, around them cindered wood and blackened bricks.

He left the damp darkness of the trees to tramp uphill into the sunlight. Already it was hot and he sought somewhere cool; he changed course and headed for the rocks on Jagstone where he lay down in the brown dry grass and allowed himself to succumb to memory.

Katya, he wondered if the ache in him would ever be dulled, if only he had never gone there; if only he had never been a newsman, if he had stayed at home and run the farm, what an easy untroubled life he could have had. If, if, if. So many might-have-beens.

But that wasn't what he wanted, the easy life served up for him. At least he’d travelled and seen the world for what it was — which had seemed mostly a hard and awful place. Colleagues had told him more than once he would have been better off as a farmer. You’re too soft for this Jimmy, you take it too much to heart. Too sensitive, lad, you need a strong stomach for this bloody mess.

But because he’d been there, stuck in the siege because he’d got himself involved, he’d seen it from the inside and that was what he was doing here now, sitting on this hill in the middle of nowhere. Supposed to be writing about it. That was what it was all about, find a peaceful place, make a bit of income from the farm and write the book they were all waiting for.

He had a contract and been paid a good advance with a bigger cheque waiting. But the advance was spent and month after month nothing happened, he hadn’t even made a start, just a few pages of notes. Every day he told himself, tomorrow, I'll start tomorrow.

But always he was side-tracked , by any physical task that demanded little from his brain, or someone to see or a place to go, anything but sit down and drag out the words. It was too raw, too fresh in his head, the images too close. He should never have agreed to do it but in the first gratitude of survival it seemed the right thing to do.

When his editor offered him the chance to cover the escalating conflict in Bosnia he’d jumped at it, he was ambitious, it could be the move that propelled him onto the next rung of his career — television, his aim from the start. He saw himself as the new Kate Adie, the face people recognised and trusted, knowing things must be really bad if he was there.

He’d seen more than his share of the world’s conflicts — Somalia, Angola, India when the Hindu fundamentalists were killing Muslims and then on to Kashmir. But the developing crisis as Yugoslavia fell apart had drawn him like a magnet.

He loved the country — as children they’d had holidays there in the days when he and his father had fun together and Yugoslavia offered cheap trips to the sun with clear blue seas and spectacular landscapes. He recalled jumping off a jetty with his sister Louise into a pellucid depth of water where they could see fish and crabs swimming. He had more recent happy memories with two different girlfriends, bathing and sailing with plenty of cheap wine.

Now it was blown apart and the country become a battlefield, a shattered land that no one seemed to care about. There was coverage on the news from the beginning as Slovenia, then Croatia clawed their way to independence.

International politicians talked interminably but the situation wasn’t seen as warranting intervention —it seemed to be working itself out. Until the Bosnian Serbs decided on a campaign of ethnic cleansing. James was stunned that neighbours in a European country, just a few hours away by plane, were murdering each other in the name of religion. As one united country under Tito they’d lived together in peace and apparent contentment with growing prosperity. But now the centuries-old epithet ‘Turk’ was heard again as part of the population embarked on what was nothing less than genocide.

He couldn’t understand why people he knew and worked with weren't more troubled by the violence as if it concerned an alien people, far away and unimportant.

He realised how naive he’d been, arrogant even, to think that he, just another journalist in the war zone, could make a difference to the global perception of the crisis. The fact that many others had done the same was not the point. Somehow he, James Lambert would be the man to make a difference and open the eyes of the world. He’d failed of course. It was only now that the scale of his hubris hit him. He sent back brilliant copy with graphic and harrowing photographs, he did television pieces and live coverage from some of the worst-hit areas. It didn’t take long to understand the futility of his efforts but by then he’d met Katya and his world had changed.

His help then was more practical, keeping people alive by ferrying food and other supplies through the dangerous routes into the city or dragging them off the streets as the shells landed. Too often it was women and children with dreadful injuries.

He looked down at the pigeons, lying with bloodied beaks and marks where the pellets had hit, reminded of his first discovery of how much blood was contained in a human body. And how far it could spread.

At least he was helping— that kept him there, that and the young widow who mattered to him more than anything else in his life.

She wasn’t beautiful, not as people might understand the word. She had a calm radiance and a vulnerability that entranced him. It was easy to fall in love with her. They talked together in hurried, gasping snatches, there seemed to be so much to say. She’d been to London once and loved it — the atmosphere, the theatres and restaurants of the West End had particularly impressed but she said she could never live there because it was too far from the mountains.

He laughed at that and told her about the mountains and hills in Britain, places where she might feel at home. He knew Shropshire hardly at all then, only from driving through on the way to somewhere else. But he told her about Wales and the red kites and the battle to bring them back from near extinction. Sitting there in Sarajevo where human life was so cheap it seemed nonsense to talk about saving birds of prey.

But Katya thought it was wonderful, that people had time to think such things could matter. He told her about the different people that made up Britain and some of the battles in the past.

But that was a long time ago, she said. You all live together now in peace.

Apart from the rugby, he said. And don't forget our friends the IRA. See what they say about that in northern Ireland. That's the nearest thing we have to what's happening here — and that’s down to religion as well.

But it's not genocide is it? They don't hate each other just because they're there. Neighbours don't suddenly begin killing each other. People you've known all your life, children you played with when you were a child.

No, it's not as bad as that. He looked at her and said: I can't believe you had the Olympics here not so long ago. None of it makes any sense.

That was a wonderful time for Sarajevo, showing off to the whole world. All the excitement, the glamour, people thought we had a wonderful city and we did. Now look at us. She sighed, reaching across to touch his hand.

That's why your red birds are so important — the kites. It matters because it’s civilised, things like that are the layers of concern that set us above the animals. Because we’re human we can make it happen. Here humanity is a rare commodity.

He began to tell her about his childhood and they compared notes on what they’d seen and done. She’d been brought up around Sarajevo and for her Bosnia was the centre of the world, a land she loved. But it was hard to be light-hearted because down every track they tried they hit on something changed or wrecked by the war.

He stayed with her till two in the morning and the journey back across the city to the Holiday Inn was punctuated by the crack of gunfire and the rumble of heavy weapons. It never stopped, even through the night there was no let-up from the firing.

The plaintive mewing of buzzards roused him from his reverie, reminding him of kites, the sound so similar — and for always now kites would remind him of her. He opened his eyes and gazed into the blue sky, searching for the soaring birds. It was the kind of day they loved — warm and clear with thermals lifting their wings.

He counted five, each gliding in its chosen sweep, gradually moving across the valley as they hunted at leisure. Their appeal never palled and as he watched the easy grace of their flight the flash of pale under-barring on the wings of the nearest bird was caught in the sunlight as it banked away from him. The birds were coming lower and he lay still. They knew he was there but he sensed his presence wouldn’t alarm them. One came down and settled on the rocks nearest him. Slowly he turned his head towards it and the bird swivelled its own head to gaze at him. Neither moved, the sharp eyes above the strong, curved beak looked directly at him. He returned the stare until the buzzard took off and flapped unhurriedly away to a further rock. It was not alarmed, just discomforted.

Chapter two

Luck was on his side and he caught the lunch time ferry at Southampton, driving on just before the ramp went up. The mid-week sailing was only half full and comfortably quiet on board, no shouting teenagers which had been his last experience. It was a decision taken on impulse as he lay in bed that morning wondering what to do with himself

Out of bed at half past four he’d made up his mind — a trip to France, get a new perspective. He left home without breakfast but when he went below to find a restaurant his appetite disappeared as his usual queasiness at sea began to make his stomach churn. The day was hot but windy and the waves rolled up a rough swell as the ferry headed out into the Channel. He bought a coffee and found a bench where he could stretch out. He was very tired and with his head down he fell asleep and stayed there through the voyage, waking as a French voice informed passengers they would be landing in ten minutes.

He went out on deck to watch the little port approaching, seeing bathers enjoying the late afternoon sun on the beach at Ouistreham. He still felt tired and very hungry and now dejected. Early in the morning it had seemed a good idea but as he waited to go down to the car deck it seemed a stupid thing to do. The idea was to drive south to visit his friend Paul who’d bought and renovated a little farm in the Lot Valley near Villeneuve. It was a long way and he didn’t even know if the family would be there.

Come any time, they’d said but dropping in on spec after a 700 mile journey was a bit crazy. Better find somewhere to eat and stay the night, he told himself and get hold of Paul. If it was no good he could have a day or two in Normandy and head back home.

The course of action decided he felt better and eager to be off the ferry and as he waited for the giant doors to open he grew impatient to be away. Being at the wheel of the MG again was good. He hadn’t driven it since before Bosnia but it had been his pride and joy, left over from the time when such things mattered. He loved its dark green colour. One of the last MGBs to be made, it had sat under wraps at the farm for more than a year and before that in a London garage.

By now early evening and with the hour difference beginning to darken the sky, he opted to stay in Caen and booked into a small hotel. In the shabby restaurant waiting for his food he drank a large glass of red wine.

It took the edge off the meal which was better than expected, young rabbit cooked with prunes and shallots and a pile of frites alongside. After the first glass he ordered a carafe, the house wine, a light red from the top end of the Loire which he would never find in England. It went well with cheese which cheered him, one of the main delights of France, and he ate a large piece of the soft goat cheese. Too much. When the carafe was empty he finished off with Armagnac and then felt desperately tired and queasy. He remembered he still hadn’t contacted Paul. In the morning, he thought.

He was almost alone in the restaurant, just a couple in the corner engrossed in each other. He had only his thoughts for company but the wine relaxed his mind and he wondered what had made him order rabbit. That took him back to the day in the cornfield and he remembered the pigeons and the hare from years before.

He’d given the pigeons to the dogs, not caring to eat them himself, recalling the sound of the gun and the impact it had. He was startled and almost frightened by the way it affected him and his excitement at travelling had dissipated into a growing aimlessness and depression, the bleakness he had come to know too well. He’d been on a high in the morning but all the memories that flooded back on the hill had plunged him into a darker mood.

That was why he got stoned in a cheap French hotel and struggled to sleep in a small, scruffy bedroom.

He thought about the sunny day with the dog. In the evening he'd gone to the pub, tired of being alone. He wasn't a regular but liked a pint sometimes and the beer at the Fox was well kept. Listening to the farmers and other locals could be entertaining, although there were never many in until late in the evening. At seven o'clock as expected there was just old Bert from Longstone and a young couple he didn’t know. Well past eighty, Bert’s daily five pints of bitter were what kept him going, or so he said. He sat always in the same corner, grunting his way through any conversation and sometimes dropping loud and often embarrassing comments about any strangers in the pub.

Nursing a pint in cupped hands James perched on a stool at the bar to chat with the landlord, Richard, a keen photographer and bit of an artist. He wasn’t actually very good at running a pub, lacking the bonhomie of a real host and the locals thought him miserable. James had the impression that for Richard the customers were really a bit of a nuisance, interfering with the real business of life. But he liked him and in return Richard enjoyed talking with the man from the hill -- some said the fool on the hill -- as they'd taken to calling him, because his conversation extended beyond farming, sport and sex.

Several times he tried to ask about Bosnia, from a professional point of view, he said, being interested in the photographic aspects of war coverage.

James said he wasn't a photographer, just a words man and they would move on to other things. He listened without too much attention as Richard went into detail about sketches he’d done for a series of watercolours he'd planned of harvest scenes. Then he was off to pull pints for half a dozen farmers who entered noisily in a group.

The place sparked into life especially as two of them were nearly black with dust from combining and the rest were taking the piss at the state of them. They had come straight from the wheat, the skin around their eyes like pale goggles from the masks they’d worn.

Don’t sit down, you two, Richard said plonking their drinks on the bar. You know I don’t like you here in that state.

Oh come on man, give us a break, we need to wash the dust down. We won’t sit on your nice upholstery, don't worry.

The landlord frowned but those two were part of the mainstay of his trade through the year. They all nodded at James, friendly but cautious in the way they always treated him, nobody quite sure what to make of him. They considered him a townie and had no inkling of the inheritance he’d rejected, a farm which would have bought most of them twice over.

He listened to the farming talk and some offensive remarks from a noisy groups of youths about some girl. He had a malt whisky and bought a round for his immediate neighbours at the bar and soon after ten made a move to go.

They would be going strong until at least midnight, later if Richard didn’t get fed up but James had had enough. The outsider — it was more than being a newcomer, he was always the onlooker. The job, he supposed, always observing, never taking part.

But it had always been like that, since he was little. Only in Sarajevo — he’d been part of it there, too much a part, and his involvement had nearly destroyed him. He shook his head, emptied his glass and slipped quietly away.

The evening’s wine had made his guts uncomfortable so he left without breakfast, only coffee inside him, aiming to cross the Loire at Tours and on into Perigord. He stayed off the motorway, loving the long straight tree-lined French roads. The MG's suspension registered every bump in the tarmac but that was part of the fun and for a while as he headed south with the sun roof open through that particular brightness of the northern French plains his depression eased. On either side were massive fields of sunflowers, their huge yellow heads starting to turn brown